Of Snow and Metaphors
by LovEinLimBo
Summary: Why was Light talking in metaphors? That was never a good sign. And what was in that look he was giving him? Affection? But that was ridiculous. What could have Light possibly gain from faking affections?


**Of Snow and Metaphors**

_"Let me lie,_  
_let me die on thy snow-covered bosom,_  
_I would eat of thy flesh as a delicate fruit,_  
_I am drunk of its smell, and the scent_  
_of thy tresses_  
_Is a flame that devours."_

_~George Moore_

"Have you ever been in the snow, Ryuuzaki?"

L looked up at the sky, his long, unkempt tresses brushing against his nape as he did so; it was mid July and the sun was glaring down at them, as if she had a personal grudge against humanity in general. The sky had never looked clearer, no trace of a single cloud in the vast, stretched blue, and L briefly wondered what had initiated this conversation.

"Yes, I have."

He answered smoothly, in his usual monotonous voice, not caring to elaborate on the subject as the question itself did not require any more information. Silently though, he was thinking of the night Watari had brought him to Wammy's House, which was in fact a snowy one. He had been in the snow on many other occasions, but somehow this particular one seemed to stand out among the rest; and perhaps, not surprisingly so, given how decisive that night had turned out to be for him. A true landmark in his life for sure, for if Watari had not brought him to Wammy's the night he had, L did not know where he would have been right now.

"How did you find it then?"

His young companion asked, a slight note of curiosity mixed with something akin to tenderness in his voice. L was not looking at him, his own eyes glued at a distant spot in front of him, but all the while he was completely aware of Light's eyes on him. The boy had not taken his eyes off him the entire day. Most people would have felt disturbed and uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those amber eyes, but in L's case, this only served to raise the percentage of Light's being Kira. Not that L needed any more reassurance that Light Yagami, the teenage genius, was Kira. These were all a game to L. a game, not to amuse himself or to annoy Light (even though the prospect was tempting enough), but rather a game to, and L was past the point to chastise himself for it, alleviate the pressure he felt pressing down on him and grinding on his intellect with every day that he failed to find some solid evidence against Light and more people ended up being killed because of it. But that was a thought for a later time; a kind of thought that gave him insomnia and thus enabled him to work throughout the night without a moment of rest. Now though, he had come on the roof to just…_breathe_; to let his depression disassociate from his mind and hang in the air, engulfing him but not quite touching him. Here, he could look at his depression with disinterest and analyze it in his usual cold, methodical way, which he employed while dealing with criminal cases.

He decided that he had put off answering Light long enough, and bringing his thumb to his lips, he said in a calculating voice,

"Cold, soft…beautiful."

He had thrown in the word 'beautiful' to throw Light off-guard. He liked to see that usually composed face break into a dumbfounded expression, even if for the wrong reasons and pity excuses. But to his dismay, Light did not look startled. He looked…pleased; as if L, unknowingly, had given him the right answer; the one he wanted to hear. But that was impossible. L was never wrong!

"That's how I find you, L."

L hated to admit it to himself, but he was the one who ended up being startled after all. Not that Light could tell he was startled just by looking at him- L had masked his emotions for so long his façade had taken a life of its own- but the very fact that a simple sentence like that could have such an intense effect on him both annoyed and amazed him at the same time.

Suddenly a soft, gentle hand touched his cheek, and L was too shocked to react. He quickly decided that he did not like the feeling; not the feel of Light's touch, which L could have cared less about, but the feel of slowness and vulnerability. He was a quick fighter, always anticipating, always on his toes. He did not know what had gotten to him that he was too slow to see Light's hand coming towards his cheek. Now that he had come to his senses, he realized that he was not in any potential danger and Light did not intend to strangle him here on the roof, but that was beside the point. What if he had?

"For so long I have been standing by the window, watching the snow, watching _you_, from afar. One day I decided to experience it first hand; to touch the snow, to touch _you_, and see it for myself how it really feels like."

Why was Light talking in metaphors? That was never a good sign. And what was in that look he was giving him? Affection? But that was ridiculous. What could have Light possibly gain from faking affections?

"And how does it feel like?"

He asked not because he was curious to know, but only to humor him. Plus, he did not know what else to say that would not endanger his position one way or another. Light's hand was still on his cheek, and L wondered what he should do with it.

"It feels just how it looks like: cold, soft, beautiful."

L shrugged. Light's hand dropped to his side and his eyes cast downwards. If it were anyone else but L, and if he were anyone else but Light, this moment did not have to feel so heavy and painful. What was Light thinking, anyway? Was he suffering from a weird case of Stockholm Syndrome? What kind of a sane person, and a genius at that, too, would fall in love with someone who accused them of being a serial killer? And what kind of a sane person, and a genius at that, too, would fall in love with someone who _was_ a serial killer? L knew that much that he was not that kind of person.

"And you know what the problem with the snow is, Ryuuzaki?"

L put his thumb to his mouth and gently nibbled on the nail. He decided he had had enough of Light's snow metaphors for today, and perhaps they should go back downstairs and join the rest of the task force. But there was something about the boy, a kind of melancholy that was clinging to his figure, that prevented L from shattering the tranquility of the moment.

"What is it, Light-kun?"

Light brought his head up and stared at him for a long time; L stared back, refusing to back away from whatever challenge the boy had come up with this time. When he finally talked, his voice was chocked and restrained.

"If you hold it for too long," he brought his hand up and held it in front of him, palm facing upward, "It'll melt."

He clenched his hand into a fist, and L, almost automatically, poised himself for a punch…which never came.

"Let's head back inside; it's getting too hot."

L chose his words deliberately. Light was not the only one who could talk metaphorically. And he was not stupid enough to believe this tender moment, whatever insanity it might have caused it, would affect L in any possible way. L did wonder, however, why Light had decided to reveal his secret even though he knew it would be futile, and sometimes he would think if he should be less harsh on the boy; but at nights when he stayed up, with thousand dark thoughts raging inside his head, and his eyes with dark bags under them that only grew worse day after day, glued to the monitor, hundreds of people dead, and the amber-eyed boy sleeping peacefully in his bed, L would remember that a man like Light, worth less than an insect, did not deserve his kindness; only pity, for a brilliant mind that got wasted for wrong causes like so many others before him, and nothing more than that.


End file.
